


Stages

by Carmilla



Category: The Limehouse Golem (2016)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 06:29:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13048410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmilla/pseuds/Carmilla
Summary: Kildare continues with his work.





	Stages

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Neotoma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neotoma/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, Neotoma! I was delighted to see somebody else was a fan of this movie. I've tried hard to make this historically plausible, but I've probably taken a few liberties with Victorian detection. In my defence, so did the film :)
> 
> Content note: there is no 'on screen' violence in this fic, but there are fairly detailed descriptions of dead/murdered bodies. I dont think it's very graphic but wanted to err on the side of caution.

Kildare waits to the end of the performance before quietly making his way backstage and asking to see Ortega's body. He'd seen the way her neck jerked, after all. The girl was dead, and would not grow any more dead for the delay. No need, then, to cause a scene. No need for the vast, staring crowds of Limehouse to swirl around her corpse and burst out onto the streets with the news pouring from mouth to mouth. What calm there could be, he would take.

A young woman (he thinks he remembers her name is Jenny) leads him to where they've laid Ortega out. The troupe eyes him as he passes, subdued, unwelcoming, but not actively hostile. He examines the body briefly, but it tells him nothing he didn't expect it to – a broken neck, death more or less instantaneous, no sign of anything else amiss. Her eyes have been closed, her hair and dress neatened as much as possible. Someone has found a few artificial flowers, a little faded. They lie awkwardly beside her, not quite touching her hand. Pathetic; but nothing here or in the faces he has passed to suggest a more than ordinary level of grief or guilt.

Abruptly, he becomes aware that Flood is standing off to his side, a respectful couple of paces back. He motions him over.

“A bad business. Nothing you saw struck you as suspicious?”

“No, sir.”

Kildare sighs.

“A ghastly accident, then. I don't like it, but I think we have to assume that's all it was. After all, we know these people fairly well by now; I can't think that any of them had a motive for wanting the girl dead, and especially not in these circumstances.” Not anyone still among them, he adds to himself, and for a second Lizzie Cree is smiling at him with wild, high triumph in her eyes. He doesn't trust his voice, but it comes out level.

“Make sure somebody's sent for a doctor. Take statements from the backstage crew as to how the apparatus was supposed to work and what went wrong with it, and then recommend to them in the strongest possible terms that they never use the damned thing again. If anybody else wants to speak to you, hear them out; otherwise I think you can safely leave it there for the night.”

He hesitates, feeling something more is required.

“Good of you to come so promptly, Flood. You're not on duty, after all. I hope your friend wasn't too put out by it.”

Flood favours him with a crooked half grin.

“Not at all, sir. He's an understanding sort.”

“Just as well. Have those statements written up by Monday. Good night, Flood.”

“Good night, sir.”

Kildare makes his way out of the theatre. At the stage door, there's a flash of strawberry blonde hair in the corner of his eye, and he turns before he can stop himself. Dan Leno is propped against the wall; he catches Kildare's eye and touches two fingers to his forehead in something not quite a salute. He's still in costume, but he doesn't look like Lizzie anymore. His face is ageless and smiling and sad.

Kildare sketches the barest of nods towards him, and doesn't stop walking. He doesn't want to talk to Leno now. He doesn't want to ask the questions he would ask. He doesn't want to hear the answers.

~

The inquest on the death of Aveline Ortega returns a verdict of death by misadventure. The penny papers return a verdict of death by unquiet ghost. _The Crees of Misery Junction_ plays on to packed houses, the infamous hanging scene now accomplished by means of a silhouette behind a curtain. Kildare doesn't go back.

The work continues, mostly predictable, mostly routine. Being the Yard's new man of the hour does nothing to change the fact that the majority of crimes are very simple, and solving them largely a matter of patient attention to detail coupled with occasional strokes of luck. Flood becomes a solid, familiar presence at his side, rarely brilliant, but observant, not shy with his opinions, and utterly to be relied upon. Occasionally they'll have a drink or two together after a long day, but Flood makes no further attempts to press him for confidences. Kildare is as grateful for his discretion as for his company, and if he feels a twinge of guilt that it should be so, it's hardly the worst thing he has to reproach himself with.

~

On September 18th, 1881, Kildare obeys an early summons to go and view a body in Victoria Park, and finds Flood already there.

“Morning, sir. It's a nasty one.”

The police surgeon has already finished his work, the body left as nearly as possible in its original position. A middle aged man, his neat, sober clothing in disarray. He's been badly battered around the head, his whole face swollen and bloodied, nose crushed, at least one cheekbone broken, several teeth missing. Mechanically, Kildare notes that the contents of the dead man's pockets have been removed and await his attention to one side.

“When was he found?”

“About six this morning, sir, by a man out walking his dog. Doctor thinks he's been here all night, though. Bad luck for us he wasn't found sooner; the rain kept people indoors, I expect.”

“Have we any idea who he is?”

“Yes, sir. A Mr Henry Kneale, of White Post Lane. It's quite close to here. His wife reported him missing last night.”

“She's identified him?” He can't entirely keep the horror out of his voice.

“No, sir. His pocket watch has an inscription. She'll have to make a formal identification at some point, of course. I think we're all rather hoping for a birth mark or a scar. Something to spare her – that.”

“Quite.”

He's making a cursory inspection of the surrounding area, not holding out much hope of finding anything. The rain had come down hard for most of the previous day and well into the early hours of the morning; it had been the first thing he heard when he woke at just past three, and he'd lain awake listening to it for nearly half an hour. Little chance, then, of any real traces having been left behind. At most, he can say it looks more like a brief, vicious attack than a prolonged struggle, and that only by an absence of evidence – no broken foliage, no churned-up ground.

He calls over the constables on duty.

“You may as well take him to the station. Nothing to be gained by leaving him _in situ_. We'll take charge of his personal effects and be along shortly.”

He and Flood climb into a waiting carriage. Besides the watch, there are only a couple of papers: a crumpled playbill, some weeks old, and two receipts – one for half an ounce of snuff, and another for a dozen handkerchiefs. He meets Flood's interested gaze.

“No purse, no money of any kind. Are we to assume the motive was robbery?”

“The pockets had certainly been rifled before we arrived, sir, but –”

“Exactly. No self-respecting thief would leave the watch behind. I don't suppose it was hidden away, concealed in his jacket lining or some such?”

“No, sir. Left breast pocket, just where you'd look for it.”

“So we are forced to conclude that not only was the motive _not_ robbery, but for some reason it was important that the watch be found.” Kildare sighs. “We'd best have Mrs Kneale make that identification as soon as possible. For a start, we must be absolutely sure that it is her husband's body we are dealing with.”

~

Mrs Kneale is a tall, spare woman, somewhere between thirty-five and forty, not beautiful except for a pair of large and striking grey eyes. She holds herself very straight and speaks calmly and evenly, but she looks as though she hasn't slept.

To their relief, she is able to tell them of a scar on her husband's left leg, a dog bite from many years previous. The surgeon lifts the sheet in the appropriate place. She gives a small nod, then clears her throat.

“I recognise the scar. This is the body of my husband.” She closes her eyes for a moment, and doesn't open them as she asks, “I can't see his face?”

“We don't recommend it, ma'am.” Flood's voice is kind. She turns very pale, but she nods again and doesn't argue. Flood gently escorts her out of the room.

Kildare decides not to accompany them. He trusts Flood to know the right questions, for the moment. Instead, he turns to the surgeon.

“Have you anything for me, doctor?”

“I can tell you a few things. From the state of the cadaveric rigidity, I should say he was killed last night; almost certainly before midnight and in all probability before nine.

“There's one blow to the back of the head, three heavy bruises on the right forearm and one on the left. All the other blows were delivered to the face. The wound on the back of the head was probably the one that killed him, as it fractured the skull. As I see it, that wound was the first. He turned and threw up his arms to defend himself as the attacker continued to strike at him, but soon became too weak to do even that. The whole thing could have been accomplished very quickly indeed; I should be surprised if it took more than five minutes.”

“And the weapon?”

“Something heavy and blunt and with smooth surfaces; more than one bone was broken, but there was very little external bleeding except from the nose. Further than that I can't help you.”

“It's a place to start, at least. Thank you, doctor.”

He finds Flood and Mrs Kneale in the reception area, and makes his way over to them.

“Mrs Kneale, I am so very sorry.”

“Thank you, Inspector.” She looks at him steadily. “You'll think me foolish, I'm sure, but in some way I was prepared for the news. When he didn't return last night, I was absolutely certain something terrible had happened. Even before he was very late. I just _knew_.”

“That's not an uncommon feeling in cases of this kind, ma'am.”

She gives him a thin-lipped smile. “A very diplomatic answer. I shan't press you for more.”

They escort her outside. As Kildare hands her into a waiting carriage, her grip on him tightens suddenly.

“You will do your best for him, won't you?”

Kildare meets her beautiful, exhausted eyes, and promises that he will.

~

The case as it stood was this: Henry Kneale had been a relatively prosperous businessman working in exports. He owned his own small firm and had a junior partner and two secretaries working for him in his office, plus a foreman at the docks whose job it was to oversee the practical side of the business and hire such casual labour as was needed. On the evening of September 17th he had left the office at around six thirty, after the secretaries but before his partner. This was within his usual schedule; his family expected him home by eight at the latest on a work night, and he rarely disappointed them. The office was the last place anyone could swear definitely to having seen him alive. It seemed reasonable to assume, though, that he had conformed to his usual routine and boarded the train from Fenchurch Street to Hackney Wick station. From there he had taken a slight detour and entered Victoria Park. His wife had confirmed that this, too, was his habit; it added only a few minutes to his journey to walk home that way, and he found the scenery restorative. No one had said to her that it also provided his murderer with a most convenient setting in which to strike. Her haunted face suggested she knew it well enough.

“Here's how I see it fitting together. Stop me if you think of any objections.” Flood nods and readies his notebook.

“Kneale's face was badly battered. We know that it didn't happen in the course of a prolonged struggle, as the first blow left him nearly incapacitated and would have killed him within a few minutes even without his other injuries. It seems highly unlikely that his face was rendered unrecognisable deliberately, because the watch with his name and address inscribed on the case was left on the body.

“The most likely conclusion, then, is that the viciousness of the attack was motivated by hatred of the victim, or by a rush of panic when the first blow failed immediately to fell him. Possibly both. In either case, the damage to the face was not planned. After the storm had passed, our assailant looked at what he had done, and feared that it would no longer be possible to identify the body as that of Mr Henry Kneale. He followed through with his original plan to disguise his crime as a robbery. He took Kneale's purse, and as Mrs Kneale testifies that Kneale's signet ring and snuff box are missing, we can assume he took them too. But he left the watch, so that when the body was discovered we should be in no doubt of who we had found.

“So what do we know about our murderer? We know that he's not merely an opportunistic thief. The extremity of the violence and the leaving of the watch both tell against that. We can think it probable that he knew Kneale personally; perhaps well enough to know about the inscription on the watch and to have chosen the spot for the crime in advance. We know he's a coward; he strikes from behind, and continues to strike even after his victim ceases to defend himself. We know he's not terribly clever; he has enough low cunning devise the false robbery, but not enough intelligence to come up with a new plan once he realises he must leave the watch on the body. That suggests too that he's not an experienced criminal.” He breaks off. “We should advertise in the evening papers for those missing items. If we're lucky, he may be inexperienced enough to think the best way to dispose of them is to sell them on.” Flood nods and makes a note.

“Lastly, we know that the object of this crime was not just that Henry Kneale died, but that he was _known_ to have died. And that to me suggests a financial motive.” He raises an eyebrow. “I assume you have some news on that front?”

“Yes, sir. Barring a few charitable bequests and small legacies to the servants, the estate goes to the Kneale's son. He's eleven, so the money will be held in trust until he reaches his majority. The trust is administered directly by the solicitors.”

“Who are they?”

“Blandy and Blandy, sir. I suppose it's not _impossible_ that one of the partners intends to defraud the estate...”

“...but a hundred year old law firm presumably has bigger fish to fry. I think we can safely call that a long shot.”

“Absolutely, sir. Mrs Kneale is left the use of the family home for her lifetime, and she brought some money of her own to the marriage which now comes back to her. There's also a life insurance policy in her favour.”

“Anything substantial?"

“I don't know yet, sir. There's a man from the insurance company coming to talk to us about it in a couple of days. They're conducting their own investigation into the death.”

Kildare sighs. “They always do. Let's hope they stay out from under our feet. Anyone else?”

“Yes, sir. By far our best bet, in my opinion. Matthew Lawson, the junior partner. He gets the business outright.”

“We'd better see him next.”

“Yes, sir. We have an appointment this afternoon.”

“Very good, Flood.” Kildare pauses. “Can you see any holes in this? There isn't an alternative explanation staring me in the face?”

Flood scratches the back of his neck.

“Could have been a homicidal lunatic. Or a violent thief with a superstition about watches. But I like your version better, sir. It's simpler and neater, and it makes sense.”

Kildare grimaces. He wants, very badly, to have his trust in simple, neat and sensible back.

~

To that end, their meeting with Matthew Lawson is very reassuring; he makes a terrible impression. He fidgets. He sweats. He wrings his hands together and licks his lips and looks them in the eye with the determination of a mediocre salesman, and just as much suggestion of honesty.

“Poor old Harry,” he says, grinning inanely as his eyes bore into Kildare's. “Rotten business. I suppose you aren't looking too far from home, though. That wife of his gets a tidy sum from the insurance, did she tell you? He was always telling me. Incautious, don't you think?” He brays a laugh. “ _Cherchez la femme_ , that's what they say.” He pronounces it 'church-y'.

All in all, it's very satisfactory; especially when Kildare goes over his papers on the case that evening and finds that most of the money to start Kneale's business came from Lawson's family; that the secretaries say old Mr Lawson gave the financial reigns to Kneale because he thought his son an incompetent (an opinion they share); and that Lawson's alibi for the night of the 17th amounts to 'wandering about' various parts of London, without conducting a single transaction or meeting anyone he knew.

Then Kildare reads in Mrs Kneale's statement that around eight thirty that night she left her house and spent some time walking through the nearby streets, looking for her husband, and she went alone. He feels the bottom drop out of his stomach.

~

“You can't be serious, sir.”

Kildare just looks at him.

“I know, I know, you're always serious. But Mrs Kneale? How can you even think it?”

“When a man is murdered, Flood, his wife is usually the first person we think of.”

“Kneale wasn't just murdered, sir, he was beaten around the head until his face was nearly unrecognisable.”

“And severe wounding of the face often goes with a strong and personal antipathy toward the victim – not uncommon in domestic crimes.”

“But the savagery of it!”

“Flood, never let me hear you suggest again that a woman is incapable of savagery. It may be _rare_ , but the world is full of rarities.” Kildare's voice sounds raw in his own ears. “And many men have made terrible fools of themselves and done terrible harm by assuming that women somehow cannot be violent.” He feels perilously close to his own edge; he has done all day. He pulls himself back towards calm as best he can. “Mrs Kneale is a tall woman, the murder weapon was heavy enough to do damage without a great deal of strength behind it, and the first blow struck prevented Kneale from effectively defending himself. Physically, it's quite possible for her to have done it.”

Flood grimaces. “Very well. Physically she could have done it, and we know she had a possible financial motive. Now we know she left the house on the night in question, we can say she had the opportunity too. But yesterday you stood in this room and you told me that our culprit was a coward, not very intelligent, and likely prone to panic. Does that sound like Mrs Kneale to you?”

“No.”

“Well, then –”

“But that was only what I _thought_ the murderer was like. It isn't proof of anything.”

“And Mrs Kneale going for a walk is proof of something?”

“Of course not. But _why_ did she go?”

“She went because she was sure that something awful had happened to her husband!” Flood meets Kildare's eyes squarely. “You must know what it's like to have a feeling like that? I can tell you exactly what happened. She said that she was going to look for him and she was, but mostly she was hoping that the walk would calm her nerves and she'd come back sure that everything was fine and she had nothing to do but wait. Instead of which she just got more anxious, and within an hour of her going out she'd sent a servant to Bethnal Green station to report him missing. Now what's wrong with that?”

“Nothing at all.”

“In any case, we've been saying that he was killed on his way home from work. If she did it, why was he so late in the first place?”

“She might have known he was going to be late. She might have arranged to meet him in the park at that time. We've only her word it was his usual route home.”

“An answer for everything! How about this, then? She knew about the scar on his leg by which she identified him. She had already reported him missing, so she would be very likely to be asked to look at the body of any middle aged man found dead around that area. If she did it, _why did she leave the watch behind?_ ”

Kildare pauses.

“There's something in that.”

For a moment they're both silent; then he blows out a breath. “But she might not have thought of it in the moment. If she panicked –”

“Sir, anyone would think you _wanted_ her to be guilty.” Flood sounds like he's holding onto his temper by the skin of his teeth.

Kildare offers him a small, sick smile. “That's just the trouble. I want her to be innocent. I liked her the moment I saw her; all that self command, and beneath it all that sensitivity. Didn't you like her?”

Flood nods slowly.

“And I despise that odious little creature Lawson, the way he sweats like a pig and laughs like a horse and butchers his French. And that can't be the way I do this. That can't be the way _we_ do this. We have to consider every suspect, no matter how we feel about them.”

“Very well, sir. When you put it like that, I can see it.” The frustration on Flood face is gone, replaced with compassion. “But if I were you I shouldn't worry myself too much. You can say all you like about how Mrs Kneale _might_ have done it, and that's very fair and proper, but I still don't think there's much doubt that Lawson's our man. We'll find the evidence of it soon enough.”

~

The testimony of Mrs Kneale's housekeeper confirms that she had been out of the house for at least twenty minutes. Not a lot of time – but enough time, nonetheless.

The testimony of Mr Lawson's maid-of-all-work confirms that he returned home that same night at nearly quarter to eleven. More than enough time for him.

Mrs Kneale was seen cleaning a heavy brass poker the day after the crime took place – although the maids state that this was nothing out of the ordinary, as she would frequently run an extra polishing cloth over the metal fittings.

Mr Lawson owns a walking stick with a weighted top.

A meticulous little man in a brown suit from the insurance company informs them that the payout will be substantial, and the money if carefully handled may grant Mrs Kneale a higher standard of living than she enjoyed with her husband.

An overwhelmingly hearty contact of the chief commissioner's tells them that Mr Kneale's firm has done exceptionally well in the past year, and inheriting a controlling share will likely make Mr Lawson a wealthy man whether he chooses to continue in the business or to sell it.

Five witnesses saw a man roughly answering Mr Lawson's description somewhere between Fenchurch Street station and Victoria Park.

Two can place a woman who looked like Mrs Kneale near the west entrance at the top of the park.

None of them are confident enough of their identifications to swear to them.

It's maddening.

~

It's late in the evening, and they're in Kildare's office; practically the only people left in the station. They've talked the case round in circles for nearly two hours, and got nowhere. Dimly, Kildare knows it's his own fault – there is no conclusive evidence, and therefore there can be no resolution. Flood is quietly but stubbornly holding to his own line. Lawson is a nasty little slug. Lawson had both motive and opportunity. Sooner or later, they'll be able to prove that Lawson did it.

“And until then, we should stop fretting about it and get to our beds? You're right, of course.” Kildare scrubs his face with his hands. He's tired. Some days he wonders if he'll ever stop feeling tired. Unable to restrain himself, he bursts out, “If I could just be _certain_ –”

Flood breaks in. “Sir, if I may...” He licks his lips, then presses on. “I know it's been a frustrating case, sir. But I really don't think you need to worry that what happened to Mrs Cree will happen to Mrs Kneale. She's a respectable woman, and they'll never be able to hang her with the circumstantial case against Lawson at least as strong. I know it was terrible for you, sir, that you weren't able to save her –”

“ _Save_ her!” Kildare nearly laughs. “She never wanted to be saved.”

And somehow the whole story comes pouring out of him, and Flood was right, of course he was right – this is what he's been thinking about for the whole evening. The whole case. Longer. He's never truly stopped thinking about Lizzie's fine, wide eyes, and the way she looked straight at you and told the truth straight out (and she'd never lied to him, not once). The near-childish happiness in her face, writing out her confession – a happiness almost, but not quite, like innocence. Watching the flames slowly obliterate that hated, jagged writing, and not knowing, still, whether it was the best or the worst thing he'd ever done.

Flood breathes out shakily, nods, and says nothing. Kildare does laugh, then – it tastes bitter.

“You may have had it upside down and backwards, but you still cut to the heart of the thing. I did want to save her. I despised the men who were so desperate to offer her their protection without ever once really seeing her, but I was just like them. I didn't see her either. And I should have. She told me enough.”

Amazingly, Flood smiles at him.

“Well, sir, I think we've all met at least one person who can fool us good and proper. Doesn't mean everyone in the world can manage it.”

Startled, Kildare huffs another laugh.

“I suppose there's something in that.” He looks toward the grate; the fire has burned down to almost nothing. “Did I do the right thing, do you think? I've never had the chance to ask anyone before.”

“No question in my mind, sir. You found the Golem and made sure it was stopped. The details don't have to be anyone else's business.” He shudders. “And you couldn't have just given her what she wanted. _That_ would have been grotesque.” Almost shyly, he cuts his eyes towards Kildare. “I think what matters, though, is you thinking you did the right thing.”

Kildare finds a real smile for him; it's not so hard as he might have thought.

“I'll work on it.”

~

The next day, a pawnbroker in the East End answers their advertisement, and produces a signet ring and snuff box which Mrs Kneale confirms are those stolen from her husband. By the end of the day, he's positively identified Matthew Lawson as the man who brought them to his shop on the 19th of September, though he'd been wearing shabby clothes and had signed the register under another name.

Flood is jubilant.

Kildare, almost in spite of himself, feels that he has made his confession and that something, somewhere, has granted him absolution.

~

The next evening, Kildare arrives at the Bell Theatre just as _The Crees of Misery Junction_ is coming to a close. The crowd hoots and whistles and applauds, spills out into the streets still chattering excitedly. Kildare looks at their gleeful, unwashed, unlovely faces, and finds that tonight he doesn't resent them the way he has done.

Leno is in his dressing room, cleaning off his greasepaint. He meets Kildare's eyes in the mirror, and gestures him into the room. Kildare closes the door behind him.

“Inspector! I did wonder if you'd ever come back.”

“You don't seem surprised that I did.”

“On the whole, Inspector, very little in this life surprises me.”

Intentionally or not, that seems to cut straight to the heart of why Kildare came. He pulls over one of the battered wooden chairs, and sits across from Leno. Leno swivels round to face him. Small white smears cling to his hairline.

“I'm not here in any official capacity, and nothing you tell me will leave this room. I came to –” He takes a breath. It's almost funny, how much he wants to ask this question, and how much the thought still repulses him. He meets Leno's calm, wistful gaze. “Did you know?”

To his credit, Leno doesn't look away. “I didn't want to know.”

Kildare lets the silence hang between them. Eventually, Leno continues.

“I didn't even suspect for a good long while. And after that I believed it couldn't be true.” He's still facing Kildare, but his eyes are looking at something far away. “Believing in things is part of the job. You can do it 'til they're almost real. But if you want to be really _good_ at it, you have to see the truth behind the make-believe. In the end, the weight of all that not knowing came down on top of me.”

“But you didn't tell me.”

“Would you have wanted me to?”

Kildare hesitates. “I couldn't say. A week ago I could have thought I was better off not knowing. Now...” He shrugs. “I might not have believed you, of course. She had me taken in well enough for almost anything.”

Leno's hand flutters, as if he'd meant to reach out but then thought better of it. “If it helps, Inspector, I'm not sure she took you in as much as you think. Those people she showed you, the ones you liked? She was them too. The little girl abused past bearing, and the brave woman who squared her shoulders and told the truth in the face of ridicule, and all those charming creatures of the stage. She may have been a monster, but that doesn't mean everything else she was was a lie. Take it from someone who's been a fair few people in their time.”

“The truth behind the make-believe?”

“Exactly.”

Kildare nods, and for a moment they sit in silence. Then he gets slowly to his feet. Leno turns his attention back to his mirror. By the door, Kildare pauses.

“Does she haunt you?”

Leno doesn't turn around, but his fingers twist in the curls of his discarded wig.

“What do you think, Inspector?”

“I think you probably handle it with more grace than I.” He pulls his coat together more firmly. “I'll keep trying to do better, though.” The theatre is quiet and hollow around him as he makes his way out towards the cooling autumn air.


End file.
